


a shadow on the wall

by Merit



Category: The Divine Cities Series - Robert Jackson Bennett
Genre: City of Miracles allusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-25 07:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10759152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merit/pseuds/Merit
Summary: Shara Komayd couldn't go to the Continent - she'd be assassinated by nightfall.





	a shadow on the wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pendrecarc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendrecarc/gifts).



They came for her in the night.

 

Shara had barely slept more than three hours in the past three days. So when they ordered her to stand, to get up, she blinked slowly at them.

 

The room they had kept her in was dark, a windowless hole deep underneath some government building. She had been placed here and Shara supposed she was meant to be sleeping. She hadn't been told otherwise. The light was bright behind the two men, limning their bodies in a golden outline. She couldn't see their faces. They were dressed blandly, the cut of their clothing slightly out of fashion, the cloth nothing spectacular. Shara would have walked past them in the street without a second look. She pushed her glasses up her nose, her shoulders tensing and gave them her most Komayd stare.

 

One of the men, the taller one, rolled back on his feet. But the other leaned forward, his features half in shadow, the light swinging behind him. There were more men in the hallway, Shara thought, and they'd brought their own light. Which meant that either they were government goons or had forced their way into her little not-prison. Everyone had been quite firm that she wasn't staying in a prison. But leaving had been highly discouraged.

 

“Your aunt sent us,” he said, quietly and handed her a note. It was sealed with Vinya's seal, a variation of the Komayd seal. The wax was still warm and when Shara pulled her finger away, it was sticky. She examined the seal for any signs of damage, that someone had tampered it but the light was poor and Shara's eyes wouldn't focus. She tore it open, seal crumpling, fine parchment crackling.

 

She read it quickly. And again, slower this time. The words filtered through her mind but nothing connected. She stood slowly, the note crumpling in her hand.

 

“You're to take me away?” And her voice didn't crack but it was a close thing. The man nodded, short and sharp. Shara's eyes were drawn over his shoulder, two – no three – men milling in the hallway. All dressed in dark, sober clothes. She didn't recognize any of them but she memorized their faces now. She hadn't heard any fights so she suspected that they had been granted permission to take her away.

 

The leader stepped in front of her again, smiling slowly, white teeth flashing as the light was adjusted behind him. He handed her a hood and Shara stared at it dumbly, the wool coarse under her fingers.

 

“For your protection,” he said and Shara started.

 

“Oh is it that bad?” She said, shaking her head. She'd assumed by the days of interrogation she had received that her message hadn't been that well received. But it was right and proper. Vinya had always said she needed to do what was the best for Saypur, that she needed to live up to her lineage. They'd all said that. That she needed to be better than her tragic parents.

 

The man nodded.

 

“Your aunt is sending you away for your protection,” he said. Shara stared ahead. Her aunt had implied as much in her note.

 

“But only for a little while,” Shara said, placing the note in her pocket, the man's eyes darting there.

 

“Just until the scandal dies down,” the man agreed smoothly. Her aunt had hinted as much in her note. Shara looked to the side.

 

“I haven't packed anything,” Shara said.

 

“Your aunt packed a bag for you,” he said.

 

“She did?” Shara said, surprised. Even as a child, Vinya had always delegated that task to one of the servants. Vinya had always stressed the importance of delegation.

 

“Considering the circumstances,” the man shrugged, apparently carelessly, but there was coiled strength in his shoulders. His voice sounded strained. Shara looked down at the woolen hood again. He had a time line to keep to. Which narrowed the options on where her aunt might be sending her. She had lost track on time down here but she thought, based on when she questioned, that it must be night.

 

Her aunt would want her out on the dawn tide before people could raise any objections.

 

She placed the hood on her head.

 

The journey was designed to be deliberately confusing. The windows wound high, Shara couldn't get a sense of any of the early markets. Those by the north sold spices, very distinctive, the south sold fruit and had the loudest hawkers. But it was near impossible to keep out the sound of the sea, salt and oil strong in the air.

 

Her stomach twisted. It was for her own good, she told herself. The aunt's note had warned there were subversives at play, people who might push for a trial. Her aunt at assured her that she was sure, in a fair and just trial, Shara would be found innocent.

 

But she wasn't sure. The scandal had riven up bottom feeders who wanted her dead.

 

It wasn't safe.

 

She wasn't safe.

 

They took her hood off before the vehicle stopped. Shara blinked at the sudden change of light. Her glasses were crooked and she reached up to adjust them, even as the men bundled out of the car. Only three, she noted, including the leader. She wondered where the others had gone.

 

Her aunt was sending her to the Continent. Which was apparently safer for a Komayd than Saypur.

 

The light was gray and her homeland was still shadow behind her, yellow lights flaring up behind her. She was led onto a ship that looked barely seaworthy and without much prompting was placed in a tiny cabin. The door looked new, wood shavings still on the floor, hastily shoved into a corner. A lock clicked behind her and Shara wasn't surprised.

 

There was a tiny window, barely larger than her head. It was dirty and Shara could barely see the sailors moving about on the harbor.

 

Shara out the window, the water lapping against the hull of the ship, the sailors yelling half words, half nonsense to one another. Hadn't she wanted to visit the Continent? And it wasn't like she could ever visit the place under her _real_ name.

 

She'd be assassinated by nightfall.

 

* * *

 

The morning Shara and Sigrud arrived in the town of Zlatula it was raining. The fastest way into town was by military convoy, the soldiers who weren't manning the gun tower, were lazing on their backs, reeking of alcohol.

 

They'd been curious at first, when she'd met them. “Priya Choudry – auditor,” she said, shaking her head ruefully, the lie rolling off her lips easily. “Never thought I'd end up here.”

 

None of them could recall the last time someone who wasn't military had been forced to come to Zlatula.

 

“Who would want to?” And there was a chorus of yells, muted by the dozing major, face still red from the previous night. He'd yelled and they cringed, the whites of their eyes bloodshot. He'd settled back on a sack of flour, grumbling about the discipline soldiers these days, nothing like when he was a _young_ pup -

 

The rest of the convoy had leaned forward, lowering their voices, asking why she was really here. Shara took note of the nervous faces for later.

 

She smiled, shrugging. “Just to examine the local records. Been a while since they sent someone out this way.”

 

But as Sigrud settled behind her, folding his arms, they'd grown silent. The rest of the journey was occupied hitting every single pothole and bump on the road. Shara's back was aching before they'd reached the half way point.

 

Shara commented on the rain, idly, watching their faces.

 

“It's always raining,” a young soldier sighed, braid thrown over her shoulder. “Never stops. Been that way since the Blink. Apparently it used to be quite nice before then.”

 

It was a slight exaggeration. Shara later found out it was the middle of the rainy season and technically the town only saw three hundred days of rain per year.

 

When the convoy finally stopped, Shara had a splitting headache and she never wanted to hear a man snore again. She exited the convoy, wincing as she landed in mud, her skirt splattered brown to the knee. A man laughed, short and sharp. Shara raised her head, irritation hiding behind a polite smile. She recognized the man from the briefings. The local military commander, Rahul Sood. He had a sharply pointed mustache that had been popular in Saypur about fifteen years ago.

 

And he was surrounded by Saypuri soldiers three deep, weapons bristling from brown hands.

 

Shara smiled distantly, looking around the town, the flashes of pale faces in the windows. The people of Zlatula gave Sood and his soldiers a wide berth. But the soldiers around him looked nervous, one of them flicking the safety switch on and off her weapon. Shara could almost feel Sigrud's eye twitching out of annoyance. Sood didn't seem to notice though, which did not bode well for the churning feeling in Shara's stomach.

 

Sood had tried to insist she stay three miles out of town at the closest fort. Vinya's notes had warned her about him, wry scrawls next to official briefings. He had been denied any sort of meaningful promotion years ago – _short tempered_ , Vinya wrote, _he'd accidentally killed three Continental children while on a drunken bender_ – and in this backwater there was nothing of note he could really do. He'd been here for years, casually brutalizing the population and making himself steadily more unpopular. Shara almost wanted to put money on an insurrection within the next year.

 

But he wasn't the reason why she and Sigrud had descending on the town. Ostensibly it was because the local's mayor had decided that graft and embezzling was an art form. More implicitly, Vinya's face small and shadowed – was it late in Saypur? Shara had forgotten – had said the mayor was funding a small militia. A militia dedicated to the resurrection of Ahanas.

 

Impossible, of course. The Kaj had slayed her decades ago.

 

But Vinya disliked _movements_ and Shara was inclined to agree.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks in this town and Shara longed for running water. Running water that wasn't coming down in buckets from the permanently gray sky at least. There was at least an inch of water on the ground floor for the inn, that was ignored by every native that sloshed through the doors of the town's only inn. Shara had sat out the first night, drinking out of a filthy mug, studiously ignoring her nose which was informing her that there was probably some form of urine in the drink. It was just beer, Shara consoled herself, it always smelled like this.

 

The mug was ancient, heavy glass that was chipped and had a thousand grazes. Shara's gaze was drawn to the letters down the side, almost worn away by warm hands. She could only half read it – an older form of writing that had largely fallen out of fashion four hundred years ago. Only a few scholars in Saypur could read it and they would have rushed over their hands to get their hands on one of these mugs. Before the Blink there had been thousands upon thousands of these mugs. Most households would have had one or two. After the Blink and most glass had been shattered or buried underneath earth as the Continent shifted and changed. The few left in Saypur were shielded behind locked doors, too dangerous for just anyone to see.

 

The mug praised Ahanas, for her bountiful harvest, urged the drinker to raise the glass higher and drink her plentiful goodness. It was a prayer, a blessing, a call from her people that Ahanas had answered with pleasure. Then land around Zlatula had once been fertile, vast fields of wheat stretching in every direction, fruit trees heavy with a rainbow canopy, everything bursting with life. After the Blink the land had risen and the fields had broken, the fruit trees had turned to dust and the rain had started.

 

Shara drank. Alone in a corner, the tables that were ringed around her were empty. The natives stared at her, at the mug in her hands, and there was longing and hatred in their eyes.

 

She stayed in her room after that.

 

Dusk had settled when Sigrud came to her room. It was an eerie twilight that lasted for hours, the gray diffusing sunlight, keeping pale cheeks perpetually hallowed. He grunted as he shook off the water and mud that lingered to his boots. Curled up on a chair that had probably never seen good days, Shara nodded hello before turning her attention back to the papers in front of her.

 

“I found something,” Sigrud said, and walked over to her.

 

“Yes? Because the only thing I've found it is that the records from five years ago couldn't be from five years ago. They use ink the military only started distributing in the last year or so. The incompetence is almost amusing,” Shara said, leaning back in her chair and giving Sigrud a nod.

 

He placed a piece of paper on the desk in front of her, the paper slightly crumpled from being inside his jacket.

 

It was a bad picture of her, more Continental stereotype of what they thought Saypuris looked liked than anything close to reality. But her glasses, five years out of date back in Saypur, so they were cutting edge in the backwaters of Ahanashtan, they were hers. She pushed her glasses up her nose, pondering the paper. She was going to draw attention to herself, this far out from what was left of the Continent's ports and cities. There they were used to, if not happy about, the Saypuri women that strolled down the streets. The fact that most of them wore uniforms and carried weapons that could kill them faster than they could escape, probably helped accommodate themselves to it.

 

But despite her notoriety as a Saypur woman on the Continent, Shara decidedly did not want pictures of herself spread around. It would curtail her work. And her Auntie Vinya would disapprove of that.

 

Her eyes flickered up. Sigrud had settled on a stool next to the fire after placing the sheet of paper in front of her, the watery edges curling up, fragments already breaking off. Shara traced the line of her chin, jutting in an unpleasant manner and the paper wilted under her touch. Sigrud pulled out a knife – one of many on him, naturally – and started whittling at something, wood shavings gently falling to the ground.

 

“Not very flattering,” she said. He grunted, shoulders shrugging. “Where did you find it?”

 

“A drinking place on the outskirts of town near where the wall ends,” he said, holding up the chunk of wood, shape starting to make itself clear. The wall had once encircled the town, more for show than for any defense – who would be able to attack the Continent? People would have laughed. The town had been renowned across the Continent as a center of learning and development. The Blink had caused the town to turn in on itself. Shara and Sigrud had passed several skeletons, twisted and strange, half buried as if the people had given up in exhaustion over the countless bodies that had required burial. The people who walked through the streets now had wild eyes, hunched shoulders and looked uncomfortable in houses.

 

“Oh?”

 

“Not a very nice place,” he added, an understatement if anything, “So the usual proto-revolutionaries and old believers gather there.”

 

“They usually don't have the funds for their own printing press,” Shara mused. The text below was chunky and uneven and Shara doubted more than half a dozen people in this town could actually read it. After the Blink, the people who survived had scattered to the surrounding forests, lamenting for their dead gods. It was only in the last two decades that the town had been built, the streets still unpaved and reeking of sewage. There wasn't even a school for children these days. Shara idly wondered what it would take to set a school. She'd need to find teachers, Continental, because they wouldn't trust _her_ with their children. But she shook her head, throwing the thought away. She was only going to be here for a few weeks.

 

It was the picture that mattered.

 

“That narrows it down,” Sigrud said.

 

“It has been years since I've seen my face like this,” Shara said, looking down at the picture again. “My aunt used to get our portraits painted every now and then. To preserve the great Komayd lineage,” Shara said, quirking her eyebrows. “I was never a spotty teen in them,” she said wryly.

 

Vinya usually had Shara stand next to her, very unsubtle props alluding to their history scattered around them. Shara had hardly recognized herself in the finished products, Vinya resplendent, Shara gazing up at her adoringly, drawn in dark shades. But Vinya had been pleased. She would always handsomely tip the artist, whispering words of thanks, throwing her head back in laughter at whatever the artist said.

 

“I carved my name in a tree, once,” Sigrud said. Shara looked over him. She pressed her lips together. Vinya had rumors, she'd set Shara – and _Sigrud_ , Vinya had added, a curious expression crossing her face – on the town to find the truth. And then to eliminate the risk to Saypur. They'd been in these town for a few weeks, Sigrud had followed several people to dimly lit meetings, candles flickering from a dozen drafts. Shara, a Saypuri auditor this time, had examined the mayor's accounts.

 

The accounts were barely existent, the ink still drying when they were handed over to her, every few days. Probably as fast as the major could write them. But the books didn't need an accountant, for someone to realize that something was wrong.

 

“His mother was the mayor before him,” Shara murmured, running down a list of grain requests. “I thought it was just the name name at first. It looks like she died a few years ago but her name was on the earliest requests.”

 

“She founded the town,” Sigrud said. “Used to negotiate with the military.”

 

“I bet they liked that,” Shara said, staring down at the paper in front of her. “How soon can you organize a dawn raid on the mayor of town?”

 

Sigrud looked up. “The day after tomorrow would be easier,” he said, with a faint tone disapproving tone, “The people here are very inexperienced. It will take time to organize and rally them.”

 

Shara shrugged. “I doubt they've experienced much slaughter since the Blink,” she murmured. Sigrud shrugged.

 

“Not all of those skeletons were decades old,” he said, bringing out a polishing cloth. He held up his dagger, firelight dancing along the twisted blade. “The burnt out farmhouse? That happened a year or so ago. They know slaughter and killing their own people.”

 

Shara turned back to the piece of paper. The edges were already curling, drying from the fire.

 

“You should eat,” Sigrud said, gesturing with his dagger to the plate on her desk. It was the furthest thing away from Shara. She wrinkled her nose. “Always eat as if it is your last meal you will have for days,” Sigrud added sagely.

 

Shara sighed heavily and pulled the plate over. “I notice you're not eating,” she said pointedly, picking up a spoon and poking at one of the greyish brown lumps. She thought it had maybe been a sheep in a very distant past life. But she hadn't seen any sheep during her entire time here and no one in this tiny town _should_ have the money to import meat.

 

Barring the thieving mayor of course. But he'd studiously ignored both Shara and Sigrud during their weeks in town. Shara wasn't entirely surprised considering the local military presence.

 

“I've already eaten,” Sigrud said rather proudly.

 

Staring down at the meal, Shara felt a pang of homesickness so sharp it almost caused her to gasp. Instead she sighed, steeled herself, and took a bite of the bland – something. She chewed at it resentfully, unsure why the thing she thought was potato appeared to have gristle. Sigrud took out his pipe and lit it, puffing merrily as he watched her finish eating.

 

When it was done, Shara pushed the plate away and exhaled heavily. “That was disgusting,” she said. “And I've been on the Continent for -” she caught herself, staring down at her hands. “Several years now.”

 

Sigrud was silent, his pipe blowing strange, smoky shapes over to her. Shara blamed that for the tears springing to her eyes.

 

“It takes great courage to be away from your home,” Sigrud said, his own voice tinged with sadness.

 

“We're both far away from home,” Shara murmured. “But I won't be away forever, I've been promised that,” she said, but doubt clouded her tone. She wasn't sure she had been promised anything now. She'd lost Vinya's note somehow, or one of her operatives had taken it from her before she had even left that rickety death trap of a boat. She'd been so lost and sick, she would've had barely noticed someone brushing against her. Everything would have been clearer if she had the note, if she had something other than Vinya's voice, than her dry reports that could mean _anything_.

 

Shara stared back at her face, the eyes small and wrong and this is what _they_ thought of her, this is what _they_ all thought of her, this is what _they_ all thought about Saypuri. After a long pause, she put down the picture and picked up several thick pieces of paper. She didn't notice Sigrud leaving and passed out at her desk as the dark sky started to be streaked with brighter shades of gray.

 

When she awoke it was an hour or two past dawn. Not that the sun was shining through her tiny window. The sky was gray again, a steady drizzle coming down from the dreary sky. Shara heaved a sigh and brought out the mayor's accounts again. There was something important that was missing, she thought, tapping a pencil against the desk. Something simple.

 

* * *

 

Sigrud came in at the end of the day, a plate in his hands, the smell immediately making Shara's stomach lurch. She turned, hand half raised to her mouth and wrinkled her nose.

 

“You're joking,” she said. And Sigrud grinned at her.

 

“I saw them all eat it before you,” he said, placing the plate in front of her and then quickly retreating to the fireplace. He frowned at it, then placed a few thin pieces of wood, still a bit green, into the fire. Despite the fire, the air hung thick around them, everything slightly damp. There was a rattle at the back of her throat when Shara breathed in too quickly.

 

“That doesn't mean it still isn't a joke,” Shara protested, “just that they were all very dedicated.”

 

Sigrud nodded, a smiling lurking behind his solemn face.

 

“I have the others prepared,” Sigrud said, the fire washing over his face, yellow tangled with orange over pale skin.

 

“Are they ready?” Shara asked, before she took a bite of the yellow-gray thing. It had a gritty texture. She chewed at it determinedly. Back in Saypur she'd had access to the best dentists; here she'd be lucky not to bleed out. It was near dusk and the clouds had cleared around that Shara could see a streak of yellow at the horizon. The sun lifted her spirits moderately. Maybe this whole thing wasn't going to be a total waste of her time.

 

“As ready as they ever will be,” Sigrud said dismally. “They're barely more than chicken thieves.”

 

“Hmm,” Shara said, taking off her glasses and rubbing the area between her eyes. Her head had been aching more these days. “And who are our chicken thieves?”

 

“Urla wants revenge, makes things messy. She had a sister go missing. Sood suspected but,” and he shook his shoulders, disapproving. “Dov is a petty thief. He's been caught a few times, punished a few times. Missing a few fingers from a farming accident so he's got a terrible grip. Ranmir has been used by muscle by all sides. We offered him a prettier price than Sood or the mayor. I wouldn't trust him either way.”

 

“Very messy,” Shara said sourly. “The mayor had his assistant drop by earlier. Looked like the boy had been slapped around a bit. They're at the end of their tether,” she said, acid rising to her mouth. “But I have more accounts,” she put her glasses back on.

 

“Anything new?”

 

“Even in the doctored accounts they're skimming a good ten percent of the local levy,” Shara said. “They're very… bad at this.” She chewed her bottom lip, looking down at the paper in front of her.

 

“Too bad?” Sigrud asked.

 

She pressed her lips together and didn't answer.

 

* * *

 

It was raining again. The night sky was pitch black, even star hidden by heavy cloud cover that had rolled in shortly after sunset, obliterating the moon and stars from the sky. It was a good night to be an operative, the rain would keep people in their houses, the lack of moon and stars would make it hard for anyone to identify them. But still, Shara felt uneasy.

 

The steady downpour threatened the sanctity of Shara's oil lined coat and left her shivering next to Sigrud. He was grimly surveying the three locals he'd managed to hustle up.

 

Shara agreed with Sigrud. Normally their crew wouldn't have been their first or even second choices, but it had been a direct order from Vinya to use locals. _Minimize our impact_ , Vinya had written, and Shara had stared at the line for minutes, trying to discover another meaning from the words.

 

And in one of the bigger towns or smaller cities, Sigrud would have been able to find a few old hands. Even if it was just a few nervous Saypuri soldiers; they at least would be used to following orders. There would have been some element of choice.

 

The people he had managed to scrounge up were mostly low level criminals, people who normally couldn't show their faces in Zlatula during the day time. More than one of them had a grudge against the mayor; he'd acquired their land without recourse, he'd done nothing when Commander Sood torched a farm, he'd only smiled when a sister had gone missing.

 

It suited their purposes but Shara would have preferred a professional who had no blood in the game. It was cleaner that way. She didn't think of her own hands, clenched in her coat, nails digging into flesh.

 

Sigrud gave them their orders. They were to corner the mayor – he often spent late hours at his office, presumably writing up the reports that he dropped off at Shara's room every few days, conveniently finding more records. And subtly influence him to confess before escorting him to a place that actually had a court. Sigrud was good at subtly getting people to confess. Shara had seen some of the tools he had placed in his coat before they had left and almost shivered.

 

She'd seen him use them before. Helped him clean them afterward, wiping away blood and everything else a human body could produce, her ears ringing from the screams.

 

Their crew stood in front of them for several seconds. One of them shook his head, eyes skittering to the left. “He'll have men,” he said, bringing a hand to his mouth and biting his nails. He'd already bitten them down to the quick, blood liberally streaking his dirty hands.

 

“Quiet, Dov,” Urla hissed. She'd brought her own knife, a wicked thing that looked like it had spent more time on a farm than in fights. Sigrud had nodded approvingly though.

 

Danmir's eyes were shadowed and he'd deliberately placed himself a pace away from the other two. Shara's stomach churned. Vinya said Sigrud _wasn't_ enough, she didn't trust his abilities yet and she hadn't taken Shara's word on it. They were following procedure, there had to be a reason, Shara told herself, there had to be a reason why she was doing _this_. Doing it this _way_.

 

“He'll have men but we have him,” Shara said quietly, tilting her head in Sigrud's direction. His gray eye glinted like steel in the dim light. If Shara had been a Continental country girl she was sure she would be suitably impressed. The actual Continentals looked at her, suspicious marking their features, but they quickly hid it. Shara studiously kept her face blank – it was too late for her to want them to think she was a person.

 

Helpfully, that seemed to stiffen Dov's resolve and they made their way through the rainy streets. Shara's boots squelched unpleasantly beneath her and she clung to the idea that the rain had to wash away whatever the people threw out on the roads. She held her nose though, breathing shallowly through her mouth. The rain did not disguise the fact that the road was was also used as a sewer. She missed Saypuri plumbing and engineering with an ache that startled her.

 

In hindsight – that distracted her. Even briefly.

 

The mayor had often stayed late in his office since Shara and Sigrud's arrival in Zlatula. He sometimes kept a few aides with him, but otherwise was alone. Despite recent scares – burnt farmhouses, missing people – the mayor did not seem overly concerned with his safety. Sigrud had already reported that he was alone tonight.

 

A yellow light flickered out onto the road. The rest of Zlatula was dark at this hour. Few households had enough coin to keep any lamps going this far into the night.

 

“Dov, Danmir – you'll take the rear. Choudry with me,” Sigrud said, jerking his head at her. “Urla stay by the door, if you see anything, warn us.”

 

“I don't want to stay here,” Urla hissed, “I want to be there!”

 

“We went over this before, Urla,” Sigrud said. She pressed her lips together in a fine line and then whirled around, hunching her shoulders like a child, light brown hair clinging to her thin coat. She's wasn't much younger than Shara, when she was first sent to the Continent. Sigrud and Shara exchanged a glance as he quickly broke the lock on the mayor's building.

 

“Cheap,” he noted, throwing the lock to the side. “Doesn't look like it has ever been oiled,” Sigrud added disapprovingly.

 

Inside it was quiet, the rain rattling against the outside walls. Shara couldn't hear her own breathing, let alone her footsteps. She followed Sigrud, his shoulders moving carefully through the narrow corridors. The mayor's offices were in the only two story building in the entire town. A rickety structure that looked like a harsh wind could blow it over.

 

Not that Shara was thinking that too strongly as she and Sigrud slowly ascended the stairs.

 

The mayor had kept the door open. His face gray as he scrawled quickly. Shara coughed and he started, looking up at her with wild eyes.

 

“You're not supposed to be here!” He exclaimed.

 

Shara shrugged, stepping forward. “Busy with your reports, Mayor?”

 

He looked down slowly. Then he swept the papers together, smudging the military ink no doubt, and fixed a set smile on his face. “Just trying to keep up with it all,” he murmured, a nervous laugh tickling through his throat.

 

They stared at each other for a time.

 

“Interesting reports,” Shara said, circling around his desk. “Your math is wrong, though. I can still see graft.”

 

The mayor's shoulders started shaking. He stared up at her, a smile on his face. “I know. I've know someone like you,” and he shrugged at her, shrugged at Saypur, “would eventually come here. Figure it all out,” he leaned back in his chair. “He's going to blame this all on me.”

 

“Who?” Shara asked, even though they both knew the answer. The mayor gave her a dry look. There were dark shadows underneath in his eyes, a nasty cut running along side his chin.

 

“I kept it manageable before he came here,” the mayor continued. “My mother taught me that we couldn't survive if we didn't do something.”

 

Shara had seen the local levy. Seen the state of the town's finances.

 

Then Sigrud stepped closer, “People are coming,” he murmured, breath hot in her hair. She flattened herself against the wall, Sigrud next to her. The mayor relaxed in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. There was a smile on his face.

 

Dov and Danmir burst into the room, Dov panting, Danmir's shoulders tense. “Military out front,” Danmir said flatly, giving her a suspicious look.

 

“Urla didn't give us a warning,” and words trailed off like dust.

 

The last few seconds happened in slow motion.

 

Shara heard the guns first. And she turned, shoulders hunching, mouth widening. Anything she could have said was destroyed by the shattering sound of the military grade guns firing into Dov and Danmir.

 

The bullets ripped into their bodies, blood painting the mayor's white washed office in gaudy streaks. Her ears were still ringing as the bodies dropped to the floor.

 

She didn't see the mayor die.

 

Shara swallowed, blood dripping from her cheek.

 

Commander Sood stood behind the soldiers, smiling.

 

* * *

 

  
“We didn't order reinforcements,” Shara said, as icily as she could. Sigrud shifted behind her.

 

Commander Sood shrugged his shoulders, rocking back on his heels. He looked entirely too pleased for himself. He toed past the soldiers, one of them looking shocked, gun too loose in his hands. The soldier was stuck staring at one of the fallen bodies – Dov, Shara noted. Her mouth twisted slightly.

 

“You didn't need to,” he said, “I'm in charge of this region. I go where I please,” and he leaned forward, stale breath in her face.

 

“This was a delicate operation,” Shara said.

 

“Oh we're operating very delicately,” Sood said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a thick piece of paper. He waved it in front of her and for a moment Shara stared. He wanted her to try and grab it out of his hands, she realized and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She didn't miss the Foreign Ministry letterhead though.

 

Her stomach felt like lead.

 

“Official orders from the Foreign Ministry. Clean up your mess, get rid of a few local troublemakers,” he stepped over Danmir, closer to the window. “The girl didn't put up much of a fight, practically threw herself on the bayonet.” One of the soldiers behind him shivered, face paling even in the dim light.

 

“Is that what you'll put in your report?”

 

He turned slowly, imperiously, a stern look in his eyes. “Of course. That's what officially happened,” he smiled. “And then I can finally get out of this rain soaked hell scape of a town. Back to Saypur.”

 

Shara recoiled, stepping back, almost slipping in the blood that soaked the cheap carpet. “They ordered that, did they,” she murmured.

 

“Right from the Minister herself,” Sood said. “Great woman, great woman,” he added.

 

“So I've heard,” Shara said, not keeping the bitterness from her voice.

 

“That was all?” Sigrud said. Shara turned. His head was bowed, shoulders hunched and she wasn't sure if it was just the low ceiling causing that.

 

Sood turned, looking surprised that Sigrud had even spoken. “There was a bit for you as well,” he said, staring only at Shara. “You're to leave town tonight.”

 

“That's all?” Shara said, cocking her head.

 

“Something about going to where the willows are,” Sood shrugged. “Is that where you get all your paper?”

 

“My paper,” Shara repeated.

 

“For the auditing!” Sood rolled his eyes, walking through the bodies, foot crushing Dov's chest. The dead body exhaled, limbs askew. An unpleasant smell rose from the body. “I always suspected you pencil pushers didn't understand how things actually worked.”

 

The fool still though she was an auditor. Shara bit the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing.

 

“No,” Shara said, the words sounding final, “The best paper comes from Saypur.”

 

Sood and his soldiers left shortly after that leaving Shara and Sigrud alone with the bodies.

 

She stared down at their faces, twisted with shock. She ran a hand through her hair, wincing as she hit several blood splatters. If Auntie wanted them out of town tonight she wouldn't have time to wash it.

 

And it probably wouldn't be wise to stay in town long. People always had such varied reactions to finding several bodies. Including the mayor.

 

“Sigrud,” Shara said. “We'll need to leave quickly. Probably best to destroy all the papers left in my room,” she said quickly. She started to leave the room, the blood squelching underneath her feet. He followed, despite his weight, managing to sound lighter on his feet.

 

“And the willows?”

 

They passed Urla's body and they paused there for a second. Sood was a fool to leave it there, Saypuri boot prints livid in the mud. Urla's face was struck by surprise, mouth open, tears springing at the corners of her eyes. Her stomach was a mess, blood and guts. And there was a cut across her cheek that hadn't been there when they had left her. Shara's throat clenched as she swallowed the wet air.

 

She tasted blood.

 

“Ah,” Shara said, pausing at an intersection, the hair raising at the back of her neck. It had finally stopped raining when she most needed it. People were sure to become curious after the sudden gunfire and she didn't like her chances regarding an escort. Shara squared her shoulders and moved quickly through the muddy streets. “That refers to a moderately notable Saypuri poem.”

 

“I haven't heard about it,” Sigrud said.

 

“It was banned thirty years ago,” Shara said tightly. “I believe you can find copies of it floating around these days. But at the time the authorities believed it questioned the current state of policy to the Continent. Too lenient. The author wanted to an all out slaughter of every Continental and plant a forest of willows in their place. She saw willows during a brief visit to the Continent and thought it would improve the place better than a populace.”

 

“Where was that?”

 

“The Atampas Hills,” Shara murmured. “Auntie pointed them out to me when she showed me the poem. She thought the poem very amusing.”

 

“We head south then,” Sigrud mused, staring up at the night sky. Clouds were clearing, stars shining down, the moon revealing a subtle curve.

 

“It'll be nice to get away from the rain,” Shara said.

 

* * *

 

Vinya did not meet her at the harbor.

 

The last night before the ship reached Saypur, Shara could barely sleep.

 

At first light when the sun was but an orange smudge at the horizon, Shara had made her way to the prow of the ship. She had steadied herself there, watching gray waves lap at the dark wood below. The sun rose, light rippling across the water like a sheet of silk being pulled quickly.

 

The sailors let up a cry behind her, Shara's heart soaring with them. The gentle curve of Saypur's coast could barely be seen when the sun hit the curve of Shara's head. She leaned back, hands curling around wood, as the shape of Saypur revealed itself.

 

After almost twenty years away from her homeland, Shara shook at the edge of the ship, the sea wind dashing away the tears that were forming at the corners of her eyes. The greenery was lush and vivid in a way no place on the Continent had ever hoped to match. She took in the sight of the trees, vague outlines at this distance, the seagulls floating above her head. When --- emerged, her heart leaped in her chest.

 

The skyline seemed stark and strange since her forced exit and she hungrily took in the new towers, the extended piers, everything new, everything old. The night she had hastily been bundled on a tiny boat by a pair of operatives, Shara hadn't wanted to look behind her. She had stayed inside the cabin they had placed in her, stomach churning, mind flitting from one idea to another.

 

Back _t_ _hen_ , she had curled around the moral rightness of her actions. The National Party was supposed to represent Saypur, it couldn't lower itself to corruption and bribery, it was her Aunt Vinya's party.

 

She had thought she would only be gone for a few weeks, a couple months at most. Hadn't Vinya promised her that? Or, it had seemed like a promise at the time, Vinya's smile curling around sweet words.

 

As the ship pulled closer to the shore, Shara squinted at the new towers, the expanded harbor, the mass of people spilling over the harbor. She smiled slightly. It looked like the lower house had finally managed to agree on a plan to dredge the harbor. And it had only taken twenty years of gridlock.

 

The harbor smelled like the dozen or so harbors Shara has visited over the years. But it was also different, the flashes of bright colors, the eyes that just scanned past her as the ship pulled closer. Shara quirked a smile, wiping away the tears falling down her cheeks. It was a new experience – to be one of many. As a child her image had only been circulated when Vinya needed her to be a convincing prop.

 

She had been a child of visionaries and Vinya had made it clear to her that she expected Shara to follow in her footsteps. She was a Komayd, Vinya had whispered, and the words had buried deep into Shara's bones. She had a duty to Saypur.

 

And Saypur dawned in front of her.

 

Shara leaned forward, a promise on her lips.

 

* * *

 

Vinya looked like she had aged a decade in a few months. Gray was streaked liberally through her black hair, wrinkles creeping out of the corners of her eyes like canyons, dark circles under her eyes like half healed bruises. She had a scattered, unfocused look to her eyes. And when she saw Shara, it took a few seconds before she recognized her.

 

Once she did, her eyes snapped to attention, narrowing intently. Shara almost felt like a school girl again, about to be tested about a particularly tedious part of Saypuri history. Trade rights, possibly. Vinya waved her in, almost mockingly, and shut the door in her face of Shara's security.

 

“I told them you'd do that,” Shara said, wandering over to Vinya's desk, polished mahogany, free of dust and free of any papers of all. The room, despite Vinya's frazzled air, was impeccable. And bright. There were lamps in every corner, more hung from the ceiling, gently swinging from the breeze filtered through the intricately carved wooden blinds. “You've redecorated,” she said.

 

Vinya shrugged off both comments, walking past Shara and settling in the grand chair behind the desk. Shara eyed the low couches in front of the desk and decided to remain standing.

 

“I doubt you've come here to discuss interior design,” Vinya said, voice still as smooth and melodious as ever. “After all, as prime minister in waiting you surely have more important things than to chit chat with your disgrace of an aunt.”

 

“That's not an official title, Auntie,” Shara said, amused. “The election is in three weeks and well,” she shrugged, quiet and confident, “we shall see how the voters decide.”

 

Vinya smiled thinly. “I have done polling, dirty business, you can always get the answer you want if you ask the right questions,” she paused, a smile flashing across her face faster than it stayed. “But I always asked the same question about how people felt about the Komayds. Us.”

 

Shara waited.

 

“They loved us,” Vinya breathed, voice unraveling. “They loved our dead Kaj, hero to all of Saypur, who vanquished the Gods so we could be free of the cesspool Continent. They loved your parents, who nobly died too young. They loved you, who broke the biggest scandal in years and then vanished into the night. They still mentioned you years after you had left.”

 

“And you?”

 

“They loved me, also,” Vinya said, shrugging her shoulders and throwing Shara an amused glance. “I was loved,” she said, more firmly this time.

 

“You were, Auntie,” Shara said, only a shade regretfully. Vinya's gaze flickered around the room, jumping from lamp to lamp.

 

“Another time I would have been prime minister,” she said, leaning back in her chair, staring at the elaborately painted ceiling. It depicted many scenes, but most prominent was a famous copy of the Kaj killing a god. Vinya stared at it thoughtfully before her eyelashes lowered and Shara couldn't read her expression entirely but Vinya seemed to be swallowing a laugh.

 

“Another time,” Shara said, closing the subject off.

 

“And what do you plan on doing with me?” Vinya murmured. “Am I remain an exile? Shunned by my social inferiors? They would have begged me to come to their parties a few months ago. Or,” and she leaned forward, hands spreading across her desk, the wood glistening underneath her fingers, “Do you have something more final in mind?”

 

Vinya seemed almost excited.

 

Shara watched her for several moments.

 

“The election is in three weeks. I intend to spend those weeks campaigning,” Shara said.

 

Vinya waved her hand in their air, red nails a swipe of red. “You killed gods,” and she almost sounded proud. “You're a Komayd bringing history alive again. How could they not elect you?”

 

“The people are fickle,” Shara said, raising a brow at her aunt. “Isn't that what you said once?”

 

“I said many things,” Vinya said expansively.

 

Shara left shortly after. She lingered at the door, her security detail already coming to attention. She stared back at Vinya but the woman didn't move an inch.

 

Vinya watched her leave, head bowed, eyes bright beneath a wave of hair.

 

* * *

 

Dava Khurmi was droning on again, quavering voice barely reaching the upper decks of Saypur's parliament. Shara envied them. If they turned their heads, whispering to their fellow backbenchers, they could probably tune him out entirely. Seated three seats to his left, the hard wood of the prime minister's chair digging into her spine, Shara could hear every single word.

 

The speech was nothing important. Something, something, glorious Saypuri future. All platitudes, no action. Dava gave a variation of the speech every six months or so.

 

Khurmi had inherited his father's seat, twenty or so years ago, gerrymandered to such precision that Shara could almost admire the politicking. He'd done nothing of note and would likely pass down his seat to his sole child, a daughter who had flunked out of university, been refused a commission to the military and was now apprenticed to a third tier financier. Shara sensed a mild scandal bubbling away there but for now she put the thought aside and unfocused her eyes.

 

Light streamed through the tall windows. When the parliament was originally built, after the death of the last Kaj, the parliament had been built with the finest resources Saypur could muster. Almost a hundred years later and the building was little more than swamp during the monsoon season and a frozen pit during the winter.

 

It was summer and half the parliament was daring public indecency laws in their light layers of linen. As Prime Minister Shara had to bow her head to some semblance of dignity. The crisp layers of clothing swathing her felt like a cage and she longed for this session to end so she could retreat to her office and refuse all meetings.

 

Well maybe refuse one or two.

 

Shara turned her head. The parliament may be have been poorly designed but it had glorious windows. Grand sweeping windows that reached up almost to the high ceilings. They were incredibly expensive to clean every quarter, parliamentarians banned as grim faced cleaners took over. The light the windows let in was incredible. Shara watched a dust mote carry itself across the parliament, delicate and graceful. She only wished she could get some of the recalcitrant parliament to move so quickly. She shifted in her chair, wondering if Vinya had known how uncomfortable the chair was.

 

Knowing her aunt she had rested in this chair, imagining her glorious rise to the post of prime minister. She'd probably planned that the chair be uncomfortable till she was prime minister. And then, naturally, she'd find the funds somewhere for a perfectly comfortable replacement.

 

Dava Khurmi finally finished speaking and after a pause, several members jerking themselves out of a stupor, the parliament gave muted applause.

 

* * *

 

Shara was already in the office when Khurmi was ushered in. He's flushed with excitement. Shara doubted he had ever been invited to the Prime Minister's office before. Vinya had written about parliamentarians like him; lifers, who were too useless to be trusted with anything, but too potentially troublesome to be ignored entirely. He'd been invited to soirees and smoky parties, but the grandeur of the Prime Minister's office was reserved for Ministers and other important figures.

 

She had removed some of the gaudier things when she had taken over. The gold curtains, the large busts of various heroes. But she'd brought things out of storage. The gold curtains made an impression, even if Shara usually disliked that sort of impression.

 

There are low chairs in front of desk – a grand thing, so brightly it hurt to look at and big enough that Shara could stretch out and sleep on it. He shuffled over, smiling, and mouthing pleasantries. Shara barely hears them. When he sat down, exhaling sharply at the drop, Shara smiled.

 

“Such a pleasure to be here, Prime Minister,” Khurmi murmured, struggling in the chair. He tried to sit straighter, but Shara had carefully chosen a satin known for its slip when she'd gotten them upholstered.

 

“The pleasure is mine,” Shara smiled, and it was Vinya's smile that she remembered at that moment.

 

Kkurmi curled at the edge of the chair, spine straight as he tried to keep his dignity. “You wanted to discuss, uh, something?”

 

Shara paused. She'd been very vague with her invitation. As Prime Minister people seldom refused meetings with her, especially half forgotten backbenchers like Khurmi. So she'd never actually nominated a topic.

 

“The future of Saypur,” she said. “Like your speech.”

 

The man glowed with joy. “You listened,” he trilled.

 

“Oh yes,” Shara said, standing to her feet. She started to slowly walk around her large desk, keeping her gaze level with Khurmi. “I found it very interesting.”

 

“People just need to _listen_ ,” Khurmi explained, “It would be so much simpler if they just did what we said, rather than going endless second readings -”

 

“I listened and I didn't like what I heard,” Shara said, reaching the edge of her desk. She gave Khurmi a flat stare.

 

He gaped at her like a fish, eyes widening. A faint sweat started to prickle across his wide forehead.

 

“You're a very wealthy man,” Shara said. “Yet you've been in parliament for decades now drawing a small salary.”

 

He didn't blink. He hadn't blinked since she had started speaking. “Good investments,” he said quickly.

 

Shara smiled. “Oh yes,” she said, “Your daughter is a financier, isn't she?”

 

His eyes widened and then he finally blinked. He clutched at her words like a lifeline. “Yes! Yes. University wasn't for her. And the military isn't accepting her quality of candidates these days,” a flash of anger crossed his face. “But her boss is a former military man. A good man. Spent many years over on the dreadful Continent.”

 

“Must have been lots of interesting connections,” Shara murmured.

 

“Oh yes, they're very interesting folk. Lots of ex military types. Horrible stories. But they're Continentals. They're not really people like us,” he said, smiling grandly up at Shara.

 

Shara raised her gaze to the door, at the signal it opened and one of her secretaries hurried in.

 

“He didn't want to come here, Prime Minister,” Kava said, rolling her eyes, braids swinging behind her shoulders. She paid no attention to Khurmi. “He threw a punch at Private Jamur!”

 

“Another charge for the former Commander!” Shara exclaimed, smiling warmly at Khurmi. “Good for him they're usually consecutive.”

 

Khurmi's gaze flickered between Kava and Shara.

 

They could all hear Sood yelling now.

 

All color seeped from his face and he sagged into the chair. He seemed to have forgotten his dignity.

 

Sood swept in, wearing the soldiers like a cape. He had a bruise on his cheek and it was bleeding. He reared at Shara and one of the soldiers holding him clapped him on the head. The soldier sent an apologetic glance over to Shara. She smiled.

 

“Commander Sood!” She clasped her hands together. “We haven't seen each other in years.”

 

“You were a liar back then and you're a liar now!” Sood yelled.

 

“I destroyed most of those papers that night, before we all fled Zlatula at dawn,” Shara said, turning and walking back to her seat. “But not all of them. And those I stashed away. Somewhere hidden and I was always good at hiding things.”

 

“Lies,” Sood snarled. “That mayor was the one stealing. You can't trust those murdering Continentals.”

 

“And then there were the suspicious transactions back here in Saypur,” she said. “Dina Khurmi spilled the beans fairly quickly. Exile versus imprisonment was an easy option for her.”

 

“My Dina?” Khurmi said, rising to his feet. “But she's on vacation.”

 

“Lots of people go on vacation,” Shara agreed. “But it is in her best interests not to leave her current locale.”

 

“This is revenge,” Sood said flatly, ignoring the soldiers holding his arms like they weren't even there.

 

Shara shook her head. “This is something that should have happened ten years ago, Commander,” she said softly. “Something that hopefully won't take ten years to change now.”

 

He spat on the floor as he was led out.

 

Shara had never cared for that carpet.

 


End file.
